


Blurred Lines

by TheScarletEyes



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bisexual Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Canon Compliant, F/M, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, I'm sorry but they're not happy in canon. they're not happy here, M/M, Pining, Spoilers up to MAG 114, Suicidal Thoughts, Tim Stoker Swears (The Magnus Archives), Trans Martin Blackwood, Trans Tim Stoker, because he deserves to, implied spoilers for s3 finale, in the context of: s3 Tim Stoker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29412462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScarletEyes/pseuds/TheScarletEyes
Summary: I’m not going to lie to you, Tim. It’s been a difficult few months.Good.***After his argument with Jon, Tim goes to a bar to drown his thoughts with alcohol.
Relationships: (mentioned) - Relationship, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21
Collections: TMA Valentine's Exchange 2021





	Blurred Lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Doodlelupin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doodlelupin/gifts).



> Written for the TMA Valentine's Exchange 2021!  
> I really hope you like it.

Tim let out a deep, tired sigh as he sat at the bar. It was still one in the afternoon, but Tim was exhausted. And anyway, the time of the day no longer mattered, not after he’d been awake for as long as he had. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept other than the stolen naps he involuntarily found himself taking in the Institute library. Today had been no different. He had sneaked into the building through the tunnels, doing his best to avoid the others, so he can spend countless hours poring over books and going through old statements, trying to find anything about those fucking clowns. Though today he hadn’t been as successful about avoiding the others as he usually was...

He let out another audible sigh. His mind needed a break, and he needed a drink. He was going to get drunk enough to pass out, and that sounded like a very appealing outcome.

“So, what can I get for you?” The question startled Tim. But it was not an unpleasant surprise because the bartender had made her way over to him. It meant alcohol.

“Whatever’s strongest… and cheapest,” he replied.

The bartender left then came back a few minutes later, placing a full glass in front of him. Tim downed it in one go.

“Another, please,” he said as he placed the glass back on the bar top. He didn’t slam it, not quite.

She poured him another.

“You doing alright there?”

Tim downed this one too before answering. “Oh yeah. My brother got eaten by a clown a few years back and now those same clowns are trying to take over the world, and my boss, who I thought was my friend, lied to me about it. I’m doing just peachy.” 

He looked up at her and almost cringed. She was giving him an odd look, like she was questioning his sanity. He probably deserved it.

“Okay mate,” she said, eventually. “Just call me if you want something.” She motioned with her brow at his glass and he nodded, throat suddenly too dry to say anything. She refilled and left to tend to the customers on the other end of the bar.

Tim sipped his drink slower and looked around the pub. The lighting was dim inside, with low hanging fixtures over the tables. Even the light from behind the bar was soft, muted. And it was quiet. Low music Tim did not recognize was playing in the background, and if he focused, he could just hear the murmur of conversation from the other patrons. It wasn’t yet crowded given it was a weekday – at least, he was pretty sure it was a weekday – but there were a few occupied tables and bar stools.

He took another swig of his drink. It tasted like shit. He hadn’t noticed before, but now the taste was obvious on his tongue. It was strong though, and he could feel the burn of it as it slid down his throat. A few more of these and he was going to get properly pissed.

He swirled the remaining contents of his glass before swallowing it. He was about to call the bartender over for a refill when he found her already standing in front of him.

“Hey. I’m sorry I made such an idiot of myself earlier. I probably sounded totally bonkers, didn’t I?” He knew he had to apologize.

She gave a small laugh. “It’s all part of the job, I’m afraid.”

“But at least it’ll make a fun story to tell your friends. ‘This wanker sits behind the bar, tells me clowns are out to get him and then he flirts with me!’” Tim smiled at her.

“You did?”

“I am now.” 

She laughed. “Quite the charmer, aren’t you? I’m flattered, really, but I’m not interested.”

“Ah…” Tim couldn’t help but be stung a little at the abrupt rejection, though he tried not to show it.

It seemed he wasn’t as successful in hiding it as he thought because she said, “It’s just not my thing, dating, hooking up.”

“Oh. Oh!” He smiled. “I can respect that. Name’s Tim, by the way.”

“Lorien, but my friends call me Lorry.” And before he had a chance to say anything, “Don’t even think about it.”

“I wasn’t going to…” Tim cut himself off when she gave him a knowing look.

“I mean, you’re a big girl but you’re not that–” 

“Oh, piss off,” Lorien said as she laughed.

Tim laughed too. It felt good to laugh, like a weight he didn’t know was there had been lifted, and for a few moments, he could breathe.

She crossed her arms on the bar counter and leaned over it towards him. “So, what’s your story? Why do you think you have a clown stalker?”

“Clowns, plural. And not really a stalker, they’re… you’ll think I’m making this up.”

“Seems pretty real to me with the amount you’ve been drinking.”

Tim was currently on his third drink. Or was it the fourth? He’d lost count. He drank another mouthful of the foul liquid.

“Ugh. What are you even serving me?”

Lorry laughed. “Don’t ask.”

Tim looked at her. “Do I even want to know?”

“You asked for cheap and strong, and that’s what you got. But you should probably slow down a bit.”

Tim didn’t bother replying to that.

“So… about those clowns?”

“Are you sure you want to hear this? It’s a long story.”

She didn’t say anything, just nodded at him to carry on.

Tim contemplated telling her everything, to just say ‘Fuck it’ and later blame it on the alcohol. And he figured he was drunk enough for that. Either way, he thought it would feel good to say it all out loud.

Tim thought about telling her about Danny, about joining the Institute, about Robert Smirke and how that was just a waste of his time, him trying to make sense of something that is ultimately meaningless. He considered telling her about the circus, the Stranger…

He knew it was either going to end with her thinking he was a nutcase, or on the rare chance she was one of the unlucky ones who’ve encountered the fears before, she might actually believe him, but... The last thing he needed now was a fucking statement.

So Tim stayed silent. He was about to open his mouth, spout out some bullshit story when he was saved by the last people he expected.

***

After the initial panic of _I need to tell someone right now so they can help me_ passed, Tim realized that nobody was even going to believe him, let alone do anything about it. _They might even blame me_ , thought Tim as he sat in his flat that night, the night after he saw a clown pull the skin off his brother and the only evidence of it crumbled to ash in his hand. They wouldn’t be wrong to do so, he already blamed himself. If only he could have talked him out of it, convinced him it was a bad idea… But none of that mattered. When it came down to it, Danny was gone, and assumed dead by everyone, except for Tim. And from that moment on, Tim was alone.

He remembered starting at the Magnus Institute in hopes of finding anything about the circus, about that clown. And he did learn things about the opera house, dug deeper into Smirke’s architecture. He used to spend hours browsing the bookshelves of the library, using the Institute resources and databases to look for any clue. But it was all useless, just one dead end after another. And there were so many times he could do that before accepting that his methods were not working. But he didn't have anything else, so he kept trying. 

Every once in a while, it would descend upon him, this feeling of futility, that scouring disreputable online archives and forums, reading near-identical, absurd accounts and terribly written blog posts about encounters with Pennywise-like ‘creepy clowns’ was ultimately a waste of time. He was both overwhelmed with how much there was and disappointed with how little of it was actually helpful. He couldn’t do anything about it. He was this close to disregarding everything about them as mere feats of the imagination had he not had a firsthand experience with such forces. He had not given up. He could never give up on Danny; the idea was like a stab to the gut. Even accepting this creeping sense of hopelessness felt like betrayal.

But after a while, he did stop trying. And it was still betrayal, yet the blow was soft. It did not feel like the burning cut of a knife or the aching pain of a broken heart. It felt like a weight – a comfort, a companion – being lifted, a combination of loss and solace. It felt like an embrace from an old friend, telling him that it was ok. He’d failed, but it was ok. He could let go now. It felt like _relief._

***

A voice came from behind him.

“Tim? Tim, is that you?”

Tim groaned internally. He didn’t want to deal with this, not now. _Here goes my plan to give myself alcohol poisoning._

“Tim! You’re here too.” The voice was surprised but still cheerful.

He came here to get away from all that, from all of them. Now that he thought about it though, the pub a few streets away from the Institute probably wasn’t the smartest choice. With a sigh, he turned towards the speaker. 

It was Martin who spotted him. He looked uncomfortable, as if he didn’t want to be here, but was glad he got dragged along anyway. Before, Tim would have probably found it endearing, cute even, in an awkward yet adorable way. Now, it just grated on him. 

"Friends of yours?" Lorry chimed in. She'd straightened up from where she was leaning on the bar, but she hadn't moved away.

"Unfortunately," Tim muttered.

"Oi! Fuck you."

The reply came from next to Martin; it was Melanie. She looked angry at… not at him. At the world? He did not know, but he knew how that felt. Recently, all of what he felt was fueled by his anger. He wanted to let go of it, at least for today. He would have time later for anger, for revenge, for fear... for regret. What would he have left, though, if he let all of it go? Nothing.

 _Nothing,_ it sounded tempting.

With them was Basira looking like she was in need of a break and was intent on getting it, and Tim being there was not going to change that fact. He used to think she and Jon had a thing going on. He remembered the feeling; it was bittersweet. He had been happy that Jon was with someone, especially after the attack on the Institute, yet... He’d since realized that Jon and Basira had as much in common as she and he did. And that was before he’d seen her with that other one, Daisy. Speaking of which, she was nowhere to be seen. Not surprising, Tim thought. She was probably off on some spooky murder business for Elias. He was suddenly glad he didn’t tell Lorry any of this. _My boss is a murderer_. It did not sound like a proper thing to tell your bartender.

“What are you doing here?” The question came out more accusatory than he intended, or maybe he did. He was starting to sound more and more like Jon did after they found Gertrude’s body in the tunnels. Tim winced at that thought.

It was Melanie who answered. “Oh, excuse us. Didn’t know this was Tim’s pub, did we? We’ll be on our way then.”

“Ok, ok. I get it,” Tim sighed. He gestured with his hands at her to calm down.

“But wait,” she carried on. “What’s this?” She picked up a napkin off one of the tables. It had the pub’s name and logo printed on it. “Doesn’t seem to say Tim’s pub anywhere.”

“Christ, I said I get it,” he repeated. He gestured to one of the tables. “Welcome to Not Tim’s pub. Come for the cheap booze, stay for the workplace-related trauma.”

***

They sat at the table and Tim let the other’s conversation flow around him, their voices unexpectedly soothing. He didn’t feel like talking, not anymore, at least not with them. Instead, he let his mind wander back to the conversation – the fight – he had with Jon that morning. Tim hated where they were now. Jon and he used to be friends. They were friends. He even once thought, once hoped, that they could be… that maybe Jon had wanted… he shook his head. It didn’t matter. None of it did, because he didn’t trust Jon, not anymore, and Jon had long stopped trusting him. That’s why he was doing things his way this time, and frankly, screw Jon for complaining about it.

_I’m not going to lie to you, Tim. It’s been a difficult few months._

_Good_.

He spent months spying on them, hiding information from them, stalking them. Then Leitner – Jurgen _fucking_ Leitner – with his head bashed in in Jon’s office, and what? Was Tim supposed to simply _trust_ Jon had no hand in it? The guy _bolted._

_Don’t do that._

Some faint, rational part of Tim’s brain knew why Jon did that, but Tim was so far away from rational thought at that moment.

_Don’t!_

Jon didn’t tell him about Sasha. He had to find out from _Elias._ Jon knew, he knew she was gone, taken, replaced by a monster, the monster who’d killed her, and Tim…

The moment Sasha’s name came to mind, he was bombarded with flashes of memories of her. For a moment, he felt a stab of guilt. He did not want to see those memories; he did not want to remember. But it didn’t matter. No amount of protest stopped the thoughts from coming. There was no escaping them. Him and Sasha in a similar bar, sipping from each others’ drinks. Sitting on the couch in her flat, watching old movies, a shared bowl of popcorn on both of their laps. _Sasha and him in his bed._ Sasha laughing, her head thrown back, her bob framing her face. _The taste of her lips._ Using the hair tie around her wrist to pull back the hair from her face. _The awkward but soft morning after._ Running under the same umbrella as they left the Institute. _Her smile when she said his name._ Sitting too close behind her desk as they worked together on a report. _The feel of her head on his shoulder._ The silly things she wrote on his coffee cups. 

But it wasn’t her. None of it was. Not the face in his memories, her hair, the light brown of her eyes. Not the sound of her laughter, or the crease of her face as she smiled. The lips he kissed, the hand he held in his. Her voice… why couldn’t he _just stop thinking!_

_You know how long that_ thing _pretended to be Sasha?_

He despised the pity he’d seen in Jon’s eyes.

_I knew Sasha for years, we…_

And now Jon was sucked into it too. Tim didn’t like thinking about it, but knowing what Jon is capable of… It wasn’t just the spying or the distrust anymore; he was one of them. Yet that was the only thing Tim knew to be true. A terrifying yet comforting truth: Tim did not need to worry about Jon secretly being a monster. He already was.

_You’re the only one._

He couldn’t say the same about the rest of them, even the three people he was currently sharing drinks with. He needed to come to terms with it, though, if he was going to go along with whatever Jon’s plan was. He was going to have to deal with them, sooner or later. But still...

_I can’t trust them._

And the goddamn circus! Jon hid it all from him, like he was some kind of idiot, like he couldn’t figure out what was going on. Martin had told him some of it, about the clowns and the Unknowing, about the Stranger, about that thing that took Sasha.

_Don’t cut me out!_

He knew why; Jon still did not trust him. He thought Tim was too _unstable_ , that he was going to rush in and get himself killed. Maybe he was right, though. Tim didn’t think he’d mind that much. No, that wasn’t quite true. Tim did not _want_ to die, but he didn’t think he had anything left to live for. All he had was the need to stop the circus, even if it cost him everything… whatever was left, anyway. And that thought didn’t scare him, nor did it fill him with relief. It felt like nothing... 

The same rational part of his brain tried to argue that Jon couldn’t have possibly known about Danny. But that part was very distant, and Tim pushed it even further away by downing all his drink in one go. 

_You listened to it, then? My statement._

_I listened to all the tapes._

And in lieu of a toast, Tim said, “Fuck you, Jon.”

_Oh, and how about you read my mind now?_

But it was hollow, meaningless. It did not feel good to say it. It felt like nothing.

Tim sighed. He’d told Jon what he wanted to know. He hated it, but he was probably the only person left who could actually help him. It didn’t matter. Jon had left and Tim hadn’t said anything. There was nothing left to say.

***

The four of them stepped out to the streets. Tim’s head pounded. He was truly drunk now. The bright light of the afternoon and the loud hustle and bustle of London was jarring after the dim lights and the quiet inside the pub. Tim was fully expecting it to be dark outside. He didn’t usually get drunk this early. Maybe he should have felt embarrassed, but he dismissed that thought. He didn’t care. And anyway, today seemed like a special occasion.

“Are you heading back to the Institute?” A voice said from beside him, Martin’s voice.

Tim hadn’t noticed which way he was going, but it seemed like he was heading back to the Institute. Tim stopped in his tracks and turned his head towards Martin. He’d thought they’d all left already, and indeed there was no sign of either Basira or Melanie, but Martin was standing next to him, looking at him expectantly. Martin’s pale face showed color easily. And even though he didn’t have much to drink, at least Tim thought he hadn’t, his cheeks were flushed a deeper red than usual.

“I told Melanie and Basira to go ahead, but I thought to see if you wanted to walk back together?” Martin said.

A pang of guilt stabbed through Tim. He’d once felt a sort of kinship towards Martin. And you’d think getting stuck in a monster’s fucked up corridors for days would bring them closer. But it didn’t. All it did was make of Martin yet another witness to the shitshow that is Tim’s life. Especially after he’d told him about Danny. He knew Martin would never look at him the same again. He didn’t want to see pity directed at him.

It seemed like Tim took too long to answer because Martin carried on, “I’m just worried about you. I haven’t been seeing you at work, though I know you’ve been coming in.”

“It’s not like I can _not_ go,” Tim said, disgusted. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”

“I know. I’ve tried too.” He must have seen the disbelief on Tim’s face because Martin continued, “D–don’t look so surprised! We’re working in a–a temple for a fear god! And our boss has murdered _two_ people.”

“As far as we know.”

“Yeah. Not much sense in trying to maintain a good work ethic.”

“Heh. Right.”

They stayed silent for a while, just standing next to each other. Tim didn’t know why Martin wouldn’t just _leave_ – he didn’t know why he hadn’t left yet – but Tim suspected Martin had more to say. And he was right.

Martin sounded hesitant as he said, “You also haven’t been coming to the meetings.”

And that was not something Tim wanted to talk about. “Don’t.”

“I’m not telling you to go every month. Hell, I don’t either, but it could be helpful–”

“I said _don’t_.”

“–to talk to other trans…”

Martin was interrupted as Tim let out a disbelieving bark of laughter. “Talk to them about what, Martin? You and I both know we can’t tell people about _any_ of this.”

“You know you don’t have to get into specifics. You can just talk, in general, about anything. Just talk.” Martin shrugged.

“No,” and his voice sounded final, maybe a little too harsh, but it made Martin shut up. 

Martin exhaled audibly. “Did you speak with Jon?” He seemed to think that was a good change of subject, but Tim didn’t want to talk about this either.

“He listened to the tape.”

“Of course he did.” Tim might be mistaken, but Martin sounded _fond_. Any other time, he might have ribbed Martin about it. Now, he was just too tired.

“But that’s not what I asked. Did you two _talk_?” Martin insisted.

Tim let out an exasperated breath. “Yes, we did. We had a nice little chat, didn’t we?” Tim said, sarcastically. “Back to being the best of friends. I’ve forgiven him for the simple matter of _stalking_ me…”

“You don’t have to _mock_ me. I get it.” Martin sighed.

“You know what? Never mind. Do you want to head back?” Martin asked after a beat.

“No,” Tim answered. He wasn’t looking at Martin as he spoke. “I think–I think I should probably sober up first. Go home, get some sleep.” Just the thought of his bed was comforting.

Martin still looked unconvinced, but he didn’t argue. He crossed the street, looking back at Tim only once before heading towards the Institute. 

Tim did not go back home, not immediately, at least. Instead, he walked the streets of London, aimlessly. He hated the humidity, but at least it was not raining. He wandered, trying to lose himself in the city, as he lost himself in thought.

The thing about Jon was, Tim wanted to forgive him, but he knew he couldn’t, not right now, not while the Unknowing was looming over them, not while Tim did not expect himself to survive it. Not after everything. Sometimes, when he is distracted, when the anger fades and makes way for the grief and the loss, he would let his mind wander, and his fantasies, his hopes, for an After would slip through. And the dream would be nice, a version of this life where none of the things that happened over the past four years occurred, where he was free to admit how he really felt. But that was all it was; a nice dream.

There was one thing for sure: it was already too late. Tim was going to finish this the same way he started. Alone.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Note:** Quotes (in italics) are taken verbatim from MAG 114.
> 
> I'm on tumblr: [@do-not-feed-the-archivist](https://do-not-feed-the-archivist.tumblr.com)!


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